


The birth plan.

by skinnylittlered



Series: The prince and I. [2]
Category: Loki: Agent of Asgard, Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor - All Media Types, Thor: Tales of Asgard
Genre: Angst, Angst and Humor, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Humor, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-14
Updated: 2014-06-14
Packaged: 2018-02-04 15:50:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1784644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skinnylittlered/pseuds/skinnylittlered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki and OFC discuss the topic of giving birth later that ideal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The birth plan.

“I’m not giving birth in fucking Asgard, Loki,” I concluded the argument decisively, crossing my arms on top of my ever bulging belly, painfully squishing my breasts together, still not accustomed to the rather bothersome size. Having been used to minimal endowment in that regard, and the implicit perkiness and lack of need for a bra – for any other reason other than the aesthetics of it, that is – the overwhelming dimension of my bosom, the implicit loss of firmness and the touch-my-boobs-and-I-will-ravenously-murder-you general soreness have really been taking their toll on me and my implacable craving to shed the blood of my infuriatingly stubborn husband.

I know all too well that conflicts like this we’re in the very middle of can be easily avoided by communication – I have lived by this credo the whole of my life so far – but, as I find myself here, feet pulsing swollen, my presumably budding model daughter practicing cat walking on my bladder and my entire system shouting out _‘pickles’_ , I can easily and certainly tell you that pregnancy impairs one’s communicative skills. Not to mention the fact that my jaw is tightly locked in frustration.

He looks at me with unnerving (and further enraging) patience, probably noticing the current absence of my ability to put coherent thoughts together, let alone be even remotely articulate. So he wordlessly waits for either my withdrawal or argument. Once the silence becomes one moment too long, he exits the room, motioning for me to wait a second while he goes to the kitchen and returns with a bowlful of pickled cucumbers.

“Peace offerings,” he smirks, handing me the porcelain vessel, and I could cry for joy to all the deities in the sky, so I animatedly voice my happiness to him, throwing my arms around his slender neck in a less then gracious attempt of an embrace.

“Mmmh, you’re a god,” I moan contentedly as he reaches around my waist with both arms, gently massaging the small of my back.

His giggle is low and it pleasantly vibrates into my chubbier-then-usual arms. “Odin would definitely disagree with you there but he and I only very rarely, if ever, come to merely similar conclusions.

Now, what about you eat those while I braid your hair and we can discuss whatever’s wrong with Asgard as a place for you to give birth.”

I revel in the thought of his fingers dexterously knotting through my tresses and kneel in between his parted knees, munching delightedly at the cool crunchiness of the marinated vegetables in my hands, feeling shivers descending from the top of my head to my tailbone when he proceeds with his activity.

“I have a birth plan,” I commence, open to further debate on the topic, now that I am calmer and eating. “I’ve always imagined this being something that I would do in the comforts provided by my own home, in the bedroom I conceived, alone but for my partner and the compulsory midwife. Your asgardian healers give me the creeps, and I can’t have that, considering the fact that it is _I_ that needs to be comfortable, not the nine realms, although your offspring is never to be heir to the throne. I don’t want to be ordered around due to their fear of harming the baby. Sometimes I get the feeling that they think I don’t care about her as they do, and that hurts my damn feelings because I’m her _mother_. I’m yet to hold her in my arms, but I never believed myself to be capable of such affection as I nourish for her. She is literally part of me.

Also, I’m afraid. I’m fucking terrified about doing this and – somehow, confusingly so – excited at the same time. It is something that I am to do on my own, but I won’t manage without you. Because I love you and I need you to coach me through it. I need a voice from the outside to comfort me and guide me through something I’ve never done before. We’re in this together. Not Asgard or Midgard, neither your family nor mine; it’s you and me, our moment. I _chose_ you to do this, to be my family, form the moment I agreed to your proposal and you chose me when you decided to kneel in front of me, a mere human of no distinguished ancestry or skill.”

His hands continue braiding, mechanically, his mind obviously gone somewhere, away from any semblance of reality. The bowl of pickles I have early into my speech set on the carpet, settling for lightly scratching his leg instead. Finally, he speaks after a long inhale, “You still have difficulties in finding comfort within Asgard?”

“Save for your mother, your entourage has done nothing of great significance to incline my opinion of it to a more favourable ground, has it not?”

I can’t manage either the stingingly sarcastic undertone of my retort, or the immediate instincts to send my palm crushing into my face at light speed as his digits stiffen, holding tightly onto my locks. He was fine before I came into the picture. Emotional rehab or whatever other counselling programme he’s undergone before having met me he was _fine_ , coping with the mercurial daddy issues driven tendencies of taking over the nine realms and all that jazz. But then I met him, and he blew my mind away, and I blew his, and then his dick and we hit it off, regardless of the difference in our species, upbringings and other seemingly unimportant background elements.

A year in he was on his knee before me, asking for my hand. I gave it to him, no reticence what-so-ever, my hand, my other hand, my integral carcass and all that lay into it making it function, complying to the wishes of a fool in love for I was a fool in love myself. It was a week before the wedding that I learned about the pregnancy – something more reliable than the feeling (of nausea) in my gut, that is – considering that, like any other sensible bride to be in an awfully short time would do, I feigned oblivion to all recurring signs flashing Las Vegas style to what I feared since my period’s failed to make it to the party.

It was with excruciatingly characteristic calmness that he announced the very same thing to me, holding my hair as I threw up, swearing to myself that I’ll never touch crème brulee ever again as long as I shall call the Earth home.

“Oh, I want crème brulee!”

“I’m not giving you crème brulee – you’ll end up vomiting everywhere and I am in no befitting mood to clean up your messes.”

He ties the ends of my hair with an elastic and climbs into bed without further addition, turning on one side and pulling the sheets over his ears. I stand against all odds and gravitational forces, steadying myself on the mattress, waddling vivaciously in a pitiful attempt to reach the kitchen then head to bed myself to comfort my sulking spoiled prince. I have already gone down half the staircase when I hear a groan, the bedding shifting and hurried steps behind me. I smile at the warm presence millimetres behind me.

Once in the kitchen, he coughs uncomfortably looking away from me, “I’m pissed off at them, not at you, you know…”

“I do and I would hug the shit out of you right now – because you’re just so cute –, but Baby Girl here is pretty damn set on making any physical interaction between us as awkward as possible.”

“Well, then,” his chest presses into my back, palms spread on my abdomen, and rocks us from side to side, humming the tune of our first dance.

“Ugh, you’re so lame,” I nuzzle his neck, placing my hands on top of his.

It’s utter silence around us to the point where I can hear blood surging through his veins, amplifying the sound of his voice.

“Why Asgard?”

He stops the humming, releasing a breath and strokes my stretched skin in soothing circles.

“Fairly easy, really – I love you both and want nothing harmful (that could be in the simplest of manners fixed by our Healers) to happen to either of you. Midgardian technology is indeed advanced, however it is yet to surpass that of my realm, and this is one bet I am not willing to make.”

“Oh, okay.”

Puzzled, he stops the stroking.

“What’s with the sudden change of heart?”

An eventual continuation was cut by a loud splash on the floor.

“I had a hunch.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading (^.^)
> 
> Criticism is constructive and tremendously appreciated (also feel free to spot out any grammatical / punctuation related mishaps).


End file.
